Tourniquet
by Freya Ishtar
Summary: Having lost their loved ones, Hermione & Lucius see the merit of using each other—her to staunch her suffering, him to feel anything, at all. When Draco turns up after nearly two months thought dead, she seeks to help him remember lost time & the emotionless arrangement with Lucius becomes more complicated than anticipated. MATURE (Lumione/Dramione)
1. Staunch

**Special thanks to Brightki for helping me sort through this crazy plunnie!**

**My regular readers****: . . . I DON'T KNOW HOW THIS HAPPENED! *headdesk***

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**General Author's Note****: The rest of this fic's chapters will likely be shorter than this one. The length of chapter one is necessary to 'set the stage', as it were.**

**It is assumed in this story that because the War went differently, so did their lives at that point. As per story line, Hermione and Ron had been a couple for a while when he died.**

* * *

**My other** _**HP**_ **Fanfictions:**

_A Night Unfettered _(Dramione [**One-Shot**, Lemon])

_Dame Blanche _(Dramione/Harmione [possible Drarry])

_Distractions _([PwP] Dramione/Harmione/Drarry [_only_ on AFF. Net])

_Hermione Granger and the Chaos Artifact_ (Dramione/Harmione/Drarry)

_Lessons in Hedonism _([PwP] Draco-Hermione-Blaise [_only _on AFF. Net])

_Nights at Malfoy Manor_ (Dramione/Bits of Lumione/Hints of Harmione) **COMPLETE!**

_The Scavengers_ ([AU] Dramione) **COMPLETE!**

_Silver Blood_ ([DARK FIC] Dramione/Harmione)

_Teach Me _(Dramione/Scormione [18 yr old. Scorpius])

_Unnatural Magick_ ([AU] Harmione/Dramione in Flashbacks)

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**DISCLAIMER: I do not own **_**Harry Potter**_**, or any affiliated characters and make no profit from this story.**

***Fic inspired by the Rasputina song of the same title.**

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**Chapter One**

Staunch

She was the_ last_ person he expected to see within the walls of Malfoy Manor.

After the dust settled, and the dead were tallied—deciding which missing bodies were truly missing, and which were actually dead was possibly the most difficult thing—the Ministry had convinced him, as a show of unity within Wizarding Britain, to allow the use of his suddenly so-vacant home to host a memorial gathering.

Narcissa's deception turned the tide of the War, Draco had fought against the Death Eaters charging Hogwarts, after all. Their images hung, beside the Weasley clan, and Snape, and dozens of other faces for which he had no names. To think, his wife and son, hailed as heroes.

Yet gone, unable to receive their accolades. Never knowing they'd redeemed the honor of the Malfoy family.

And what had_ he_ done, really? Biting hard into his lip, he swirled what was left in his glass before knocking back the last of the sharp, amber liquid.

Nothing, he answered himself. Each time he asked, the reply was the same.

A month had come and gone, and he felt _nothing_, still. Not even when he thought back on holding Narcissa's motionless, ice-cold hand; nor when he recalled hearing Draco's name announced among the missing-declared-dead.

And now, here he stood, in his own parlor, chattering voices and life filling the enormous house. Glasses clinking, toasts being raised to those who'd fallen.

If not that he was aware of his own pulse beating in his ears, he wasn't even certain he could prove he was still alive.

He spent a long while staring at Narcissa's face on the banner, inspecting Draco's features. For years he'd been told his son looked like him, yet he never truly noticed until now.

The young man was nearly the spitting image of himself, twenty years ago.

Occasionally, some mourner bumped into him. Whether he wanted them to, or not, they'd pull him into some vapid conversation—likely designed to distract everyone from their pain, rather than to actually celebrate the lives of those passed—and he'd nod politely. The slight smile that tugged the corners of his mouth upward was utterly lifeless, yet the guests let it appease them. They pretended it more than a show, more than a sad mimicry of emotions he might've once felt, and he allowed them to view it so.

Slowly, after several agonizing hours of playing at feeling anything, the crowd thinned, the noise lessened. And then, once more the Manor stood empty.

Or, at least he thought. Then, he turned to exit the parlor, and he heard a sound. A sniffle, perhaps? Followed by the clinking of ice cubes against glass.

Frowning, he turned on a heel, expecting to find one of the few remaining house elves partaking. Yet, he saw no one.

Tilting his head, he stepped back into the parlor, gaze scanning the room. For the barest second, he wondered if he wasn't beginning to imagine things.

Dear Merlin, what a relief it would be to simply wake up in St. Mungo's and find out this had all been some atrocious dream.

There, tucked between an armchair and the wall, she sat on the floor. Her legs pulled in beneath her, and a glass clutched in her hand.

For the first time since the War ended, he felt something. Surprise.

"Miss Granger?" After that horrific ordeal with Bellatrix, he truly expected the young woman to never set foot in the Manor, again.

Hermione looked up from her strangely empty glass. She could've sworn someone kept coming by and drinking it when she wasn't paying attention! She'd take a few sips, and suddenly the alcohol would be drained. How very odd.

And her gums felt fuzzy.

"Mr. Malfoy?" She pursed her lips, puzzling, still, over her mysteriously empty glass.

"Everyone else has left. Why are you still here?"

The young woman sighed, her enormous brown eyes—turned up so very prettily at the corners, he noticed—rolled toward the ceiling. He amused himself with wondering if perhaps those eyes were the real reason Draco always tore about the house, bellowing over how _insufferable _she was.

"I was told," she said, shaking a finger at him, "that I should come to this—this . . . ."

"Memorial service?"

"Whatever. This_ thing _that's meant to commemorate their lives, but really it's only to make us think we're doing something. I mean, honestly! They're dead, they don't care!" She drew a breath, seeming to collect herself. "I was told by the Minister, and Professor McGonagall, and _loads_ of other people that if I came here, if I came out and was around others, I'd feel better."

"Load of codswallop, certainly."

"Exactly!" Hermione frowned. For Heaven's sake, if Lucius Malfoy could understand what a bit of rubbish that idea was, why couldn't anyone else?

Lucius blinked rapidly a few times, tucking a wayward lock of his long, platinum hair behind his ear. "Codswallop notwithstanding, that still doesn't answer why you haven't left."

She held his gaze for a long moment, blinking hard, as though attempting to recall something. "I was told that if I came here, I'd feel better. So, since I don't feel better yet, I'm not leaving."

He refrained from rolling his eyes. Ah, drunkard logic. "Am I to take it that's also why you're so very inebriated?"

"Yes!" She leaned close, as though to tell him a secret. "This is supposed to make me feel better. But it _doesn't_!"

"How much have you had?"

Hermione wondered over this, staring back into her empty glass. "I'm not sure. I would take a sip, and next thing I know, _boop_, gone. Hey!" She looked up suddenly, clamping her free hand over his arm and startling him. "Do you think someone spelled my glass so that I wouldn't be able to drink the entire thing?"

"And that's the cue you've had enough." Lucius' dark eyebrows shot up as he reached for the glass.

She pulled it away from him. "No, I haven't," she said, her voice suddenly, surprisingly, matter-of-fact. "Not until I feel better. Or stop feeling anything, at all."

Eyes drifting closed, he sat down on the floor, facing her. "You don't want that, Miss Granger."

Her eyes gleamed as she folded her lips inward for a moment. "You have no idea what I want. This all . . . hurts _so_ much. They're all _gone_, and my best friend, he's off doing God knows what, just to get his mind off things. I haven't heard from him in weeks. And I'm left here, all on my own, because everyone thinks 'Oh, that's Hermione Granger, brightest witch of the age, she can handle anything!' Well, you know what? I _can't_."

He thought he felt the vaguest stirrings of sympathy, yet as soon as he acknowledged it, the feeling settled back into place. "Not feeling_ anything_," he said softly, setting his glass down on the floor, "is its own sort of misery, Miss Granger."

"Oh, how would you even . . . ." Her voice trailed off as she studied his face. "That's what the War did to you, isn't it? It killed you inside?"

"The War?" He smiled weakly, but didn't meet her gaze. "No. The loss? Yes."

She set down her own glass, appearing truly fascinated by this. "Really? You feel _nothing_?"

Lucius shrugged, clasping his hands in front of him as he let out a breath and darted his gaze about the floor. "Not since their names were counted among the dead. Though, I will admit for brief moment, I felt what might have been shock to find you had returned here of your own volition."

Hermione lifted his glass, examining it and then setting it back down, disappointed to find his as empty as hers. "I thought if there was a chance that everyone was right, and I would feel better, then I needed to try."

He watched her for a moment before speaking. "That actually makes perfect sense. Some prefer to wallow in their misery, after all."

"Yes, well," she smirked, "wallowing sucks."

"And I see you've devolved to charming muggle turns of phrase."

Hermione nodded, offering a small smile. "Right, muggle talk in a wizarding house. Perhaps that's a sign I _should_ go, now."

Nodding, he stood and held down a hand to help her to her feet. She wobbled a bit and he caught her, a hand at her waist to steady her.

"Thank you," she said, the smile widening.

His brow furrowed. "I should have let you fall over?"

"I meant for talking to me." Her smile faded. "No one else has."

"Perhaps we could exchange problems. I can't remember a time when people wanted to speak to me, more."

Hermione laughed. Strange, she couldn't recall the last time she'd laughed. And because Lucius Malfoy had cracked a joke, no less. Would wonders never cease?

As though he understood her thoughts, he nodded, offering that strange, tight-lipped little Malfoy smile.

"Again, thank you, Mr. Malfoy."

He realized only now that he still held her hand in his. Lifting it, he placed his other hand over the top. How strange that he wished he could switch her pain for his nothingness.

"You're welcome, Miss Granger."

Hermione gave into a bizarre urge, then, standing on her toes to kiss his cheek. She blinked drowsily and pulled back to look at him, thinking she felt—more than heard—the breathe catch in his throat. The notice of which produced a warm, _distracting_, stirring in her body.

And, unlike so many things she'd been forced to feel recently, it didn't hurt.

She didn't know quite what was happening. "Are you all right?"

He schooled his features, clearing his throat, and dropped his gaze. "Fine, actually. Relieved. In your closeness, I think I felt something."

"I felt nothing," Hermione said, her tone also relieved—the truth-serum effect of alcohol clearly at work in him, as well.

Lucius arched a brow.

"Oh, no," she laughed, the sound lighter than anything she'd heard bubble from her own lips since the War. "I meant I . . . I think I forgot the pain for a moment."

Before he could respond, she'd leaned forward again, pressing her mouth to his.

A jolt shot through him, warm and sweet, yet the sensation—the feeling—was also what brought him to his senses. He wrapped his fingers around her upper arms and forced her back.

"Miss Granger," he said, his breath heavy, "what are you doing?"

"Isn't it obvious?" She didn't even try to pry her gaze from his mouth. "You want to feel anything, I want to feel something besides the pain. I'm solving both our problems."

Strangely, he couldn't refute her logic. But then, he wasn't certain he actually_ wanted_ to try.

She pressed forward again, and his arms slid around her, holding her to him as she kissed him. Her tongue darted between his lips, and he opened to her eagerly.

Her fingers clawed and pulled at his suit, suddenly, and he released his hold on her to assist.

He broke the kiss and she tipped her head back expectantly as he dropped his mouth to trail kisses along the side of her throat. She gave up on his shirt buttons, leaving him to finish undressing himself and reached back, tugging at the zipper of her black dress.

The satiny fabric slid down her body, whispering to the floor, and she kicked it aside. As she stepped out of her shoes, she felt his hands cup her cheeks. Lids lifting, she found his dazed grey eyes staring down into hers.

"Miss Granger, are you certain you wish to continue?"

Sinking her teeth into her bottom lip, she reached out, trailing her fingertips down his bared chest. She couldn't help a quick, mildly mean-spirited giggle at his sharp intake of breath.

"Shut up, Mr. Malfoy," she said, nodding.

She stepped closer to him, leaning up on her toes to kiss the hollow of his throat, and delighting in the soft, little groan that rumbled out of him. Letting her eyes drift closed, she blissfully acknowledged that she wasn't thinking through her actions—nor did she care to—as she dragged her mouth lower.

His fingers sank into her hair, bunching into fists as her lips and tongue teased across his skin. The feel of her fingers scrabbling at his belt buckle sent a rippling thrill of anticipation through him.

She felt a strange sense of triumph as she undid the buckle, and opened his trousers, pushing them down, over his hips. Her cheeks flooded with heat, even as she teasingly raked her teeth over one of his nipples, as she let her hands sink low, grasping him.

He let out a muted gasp, sliding his hands out of her hair and down her back, relieving her of a strapless brassiere and dropping it carelessly to the floor. Holding in another groan, he caught himself rocking his hips, pushing his hardened length through her curious, stroking fingers.

His hands slid lower, dragging down her knickers until they fell to pool around her feet.

Standing bared before him, Hermione couldn't help withdrawing for a moment. She merely stared up at him, wondering, briefly, what he saw when he looked at her.

What did it matter? She realized, the revelation sudden and foreign—she knew what she saw in him at this moment.

An escape.

Before she could think more on the matter, he reached out, cupping the back of her head with a splayed hand. She allowed him to pull her close, once more, his mouth crashing down on hers as his tongue plunged between her lips.

She leaned her hips forward, pressing herself to him. A delicious, rippling warmth washed over her at the sensation of him so very hard against her. Each time she inhaled, she shivered ever so slightly at the feel of her tightened nipples brushing his chest.

He slid a hand down her body to trail between her thighs. She parted for him, breaking the kiss to let out a moaning gasp as he slid a finger inside her. How funny, she could have sworn he made a purr-like sound at finding her wet, and clenching around his entry.

"Lie on the floor," she said, her voice a breathless whisper.

He regarded her curiously, arching a brow as he withdrew his hand.

"Mr. Malfoy, lie on the floor," she repeated, holding his gaze.

Lucius continued to watch her cautiously, unfamiliar with being told something so boldly. Yet, he did as she ordered, finding a strange delight in allowing his will taken from him.

She gazed down at him, nervous and yet . . . not. Oddly calm in this moment, as perhaps the most arrogant pureblood wizard she'd ever met did _her_ biding.

He watched as she stepped closer, lowering herself slowly until she knelt over him. On impulse, he reached out to touch her, but she caught his wrists.

Raising an eyebrow at him, she shook her head and leaned over him. She tugged his arms up, linking his hands behind his neck.

Unable to help himself, his dipped his head, catching one of her nipples between his lips and suckling at her.

She moaned, shuddering against him. As quickly as she gave in, she retreated, shifting to pull her breast from his mouth.

Tapping a finger against his lips, she whispered, "I didn't tell you to move, Mr. Malfoy."

Grey eyes drifting closed, he lapped at her finger. This time, he stopped before she pulled away. "You didn't tell me not to, either, Miss Granger."

She smirked, a quiet giggle spilling out. "Well, then . . . _don't _move."

He chuckled, but nodded, his expression calm and curious as he watched her face.

Offering a sharp nod in response, she leaned close, sliding her body along his as she trailed warm, wet kisses over his chest and down his abdomen. Reaching further down, still, she took him in her hand, stroking with her fingers, aroused by the feel of the heated skin against her palm.

He inhaled sharply, and she thought she quite liked that sound as she brought her mouth to him, playfully sucking at the tip. His hips twitched under her in response and she withdrew to make a _tsking_ noise.

"You're moving, Mr. Malfoy," she murmured as she rose over him.

"Involuntary reaction, Miss Granger," he replied, biting into his bottom lip as he observed her above him.

She held him so carefully, positioning his length before she lowered herself. Her body clenched tight for a few heartbeats, a sweet shock washing across her skin at the feel of his length sliding into her.

Groaning, she leaned forward. Bracing her palms on his chest, she started rocking her pelvis against him. As before, his breath tore out of him in sharp, quick sounds, and she leaned down further, lapping at his skin as she ground her hips, trying to make him sink deeper, still.

She trembled slightly, her muscles shuddering. His hips jerked beneath her, and she pulled back enough to meet his gaze. She wanted to admonish him, yet, the movements pushed against her at _just_ the right moment, at_ just_ the right angle, causing her to tremble, once more.

She knew he probably did that on purpose, but she didn't care, as she said, "You can move now, Mr. Malfoy."

He gave that smarmy Malfoy smirk and shot up, holding her to him as the change in position forced her to wrap her legs around him. Lucius rolled his hips, pushing into her hard and deep, again and again.

Hermione bit hard into her lip to keep from crying out as she slid her arms around him, her nails digging into his shoulders. She arched her back, lifting her pelvis against his thrusts. A tiny, hiccuping gasp sounded from her as she stilled over him.

He held her tight, the thrusting of his hips turning jerking and unsteady as she clenched, warm and moist, gripping him. The shivering of her muscles around him as her orgasm tore through her pushed him over the edge.

She held her body taut as long as she could, wanting to make it last longer, but he must've known as soon as it ebbed, she thought. His hands slid over her hips, rocking her, working her over his length again and again until he was spent.

For how long she didn't know, they didn't move, didn't say a word; wrapped around one another as they caught their breath.

When she realized silence filled the room, their bodies had wound down. Yet, neither of them seemed inclined to budge.

"Should I . . . should I go now, or something?"

He used his arms around her to pull her back so that he might meet her gaze as he spoke. "You could." He arched a brow, his eyes flicking upward briefly, "Or we could retire upstairs, and see if this notion of keeping you from feeling, and myself from not, works a second time."

* * *

The next morning, Hermione awoke to find herself part of the most peculiar conversation. Not only had Lucius Malfoy _not _kicked her out of his bed, rather, he seemed to want to discuss the . . . _merits _of what occurred.

She blinked hard, shaking her head as she sat up, the sheet pulled up modestly over herself. She didn't feel ashamed, quite the opposite, she found she didn't really mind what had happened last night, at all.

"So . . . wait, you're . . . asking me to stay? Because we had sex?"

Lucius' eyebrows pinched together as he frowned. "No. I was suggesting you needn't leave, unless you wish."

"So that we can repeat last night as deemed necessary by my emotions, or your lack thereof?"

"Essentially, yes," he said, his tone level, matter-of-fact.

She pouted in thought, watching as he rose from the bed—apparently not minding that he was strolling about in front of her, bare as the day he was born, after last night's escapade—and retrieved a dressing gown from the wardrobe.

"Then," she tried to clarify as he returned to her with the dressing gown, "we'd sort of be like . . . medicine for one another, yes?"

He nodded, arching a brow as she accepted the garment and slipped it on, before retreating to the wardrobe once more to fetch himself a fresh set of clothes.

"And . . . that's it? We're roommates who'll occasionally happen into each other's beds?"

After showing the grace to dress at least half way, he sat on the edge of the bed, his shirt in his hand. "Miss Granger, allow me to make this perfectly clear. You would not be beholden to this house, or to me, in any way shape, or form,_ other _than to avail yourself to me when my . . . nothingness has become too much to tolerate."

She gave a slow nod, "And the same goes for you when my pain gets too much?"

"Precisely."

That sounded . . . strangely not terrible to her. "Wait, would I be expected to . . . ." She looked down suddenly at the bed upon which they sat. "Oh, God, please tell me this isn't the bed you and your wife—"

"No. You needn't worry, I don't use that room, anymore." He chuckled, in spite of the ghastly notion she'd just had. "Merlin's beard, what you must think of purebloods. No, you may choose whichever of the guest rooms you wish. It would be yours for as long as we agree this arrangement is of use to us."

"And when it is no longer of use?"

He shrugged, standing from the bed to slip on his shirt. "You are free to leave any time you wish."

Her eyebrows shot up. "You mean if I wake up tomorrow and decide I don't want this anymore, I can just go?"

Again he shrugged. "You can just go if you decide against it five minutes from now, five days, or five weeks."

"And if you're the one to change your mind?"

"Then I will ask you to leave, but if you have become comfortable here, I will grant you the necessary time to leave at your convenience, of course."

Hermione's shoulders drooped as she turned this idea over in her head. Her pain was still dulled, she couldn't remember the last time she'd been able to think so clearly. There was obviously no sort of attachment between them, which helped a great deal. She could live in a Manor . . . the ancestral home of a pureblood wizard probably had quite an impressive collection of literature. Come and go as she wished, leave when she decided she was ready to move on?

And he kept calling her Miss Granger, rather than finding that odd, she took comfort in the impersonal touch it lent the situation.

"I'm looking for a downside to this, Mr. Malfoy," she said, hoping he'd catch that she'd picked up on the nuance.

He gave that tight-lipped Malfoy grin. "And have you found one?"

"No, I haven't." She stood, straightening the dressing gown. "I guess we have a deal, Mr. Malfoy. Now, where's your library?"

* * *

By the third week—several times during which she'd woken up in his bed, and a few nights of finding Lucius in hers—Hermione had read through only a quarter of the books on the wide, shelved walls. She didn't know if she was slacking, or if that was merely a testament to how many books there really were.

Lucius entered the room, going directly to a particular section of the library and skimming over the titles.

He let out a sigh. "Miss Granger, have you seen either of those blasted elves?"

"Those blasted elves have names, Mr. Malfoy."

"Yes, well, that does not much matter when I could do with either one, now does it?"

She sighed, shaking her head as she selected her next bit of reading and turned on a heel. "Such a pureblood way to look at things," she said over her shoulder.

He only rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "Bloody elves," he muttered, not caring to summon one simply to find a book.

Hermione retreated to the garden. A marble bench that faced the dark stone fountain had quickly become her favorite reading spot. As she settled down, placing the books in a neat stack beside her, she heard something from the front of the Manor.

Frowning curiously, she stood and jogged around the side of the house—Lord knew if she walked, she'd never get there—ducking through an open wrought-iron gate to come up on the front entrance.

The doors of the Manor stood open, and on the floor of the foyer, she could see a crumpled figure. . . . With a fringe of pale hair over a dark shirt collar.

"Oh, God," she whispered, hurrying up the steps.

In her shock, her legs gave out and she found herself sitting suddenly on the floor beside Draco's unconscious, battered-looking from.

"Oh, God," she said again, "Draco, Draco! Where have you . . . oh, Draco, wake up, please!"

Uncertain what to do, she struggled to shift his body on the floor, pillowing his head in her lap in some meager attempt to make him comfortable.

He didn't stir. He was actually still wearing the same clothes he'd been when he'd disappeared during the Battle of Hogwarts! They practically hung from him in tatters, but she recognized them, all the same. His lips were dry and cracked, his closed eyes puffy, and a thick scruff of pale-gold hair had grown out over his jaw and upper lip.

She leaned down, bringing her ear close to his lips.

He was still breathing, but barely.

Hermione was unable to stop herself from screaming, "_Lucius_!"


	2. Flow

**Thank you for the warm reception this fic has received. It means a lot, especially given how apprehensive I was about posting it.**

* * *

**My other** _**HP**_ **Fanfictions:**

_A Night Unfettered _(Dramione [**One-Shot**, Lemon])

_Dame Blanche _(Dramione/Harmione [possible Drarry])

_Distractions _([PwP] Dramione/Harmione/Drarry [_only_ on AFF. Net])

_Hermione Granger and the Chaos Artifact_ (Dramione/Harmione/Drarry)

_Lessons in Hedonism _([PwP] Draco-Hermione-Blaise [_only _on AFF. Net])

_Nights at Malfoy Manor_ (Dramione/Bits of Lumione/Hints of Harmione) **COMPLETE!**

_The Scavengers_ ([AU] Dramione) **COMPLETE!**

_Silver Blood_ ([DARK FIC] Dramione/Harmione)

_Teach Me _(Dramione/Scormione [18 yr old. Scorpius])

_Unnatural Magick_ ([AU] Harmione/Dramione in Flashbacks)

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**Chapter Two**

Flow

Hermione held in a frown as she dipped the washcloth into the bowl of fresh water. She wiped Draco's face clean in slow, delicate strokes.

Lucius, after grumping down the main staircase to inform her that she'd slipped up and addressed him incorrectly, had halted in the threshold of the foyer. For a few silent, stretched heartbeats, he merely stared at his son's battered, still form. Swallowing hard, he pushed away a mild sense of distress. This sight which should fill him with joy—which should reawaken his ability to feel—only inspired in him an oddly dim wash of relief.

Understanding, now, what caused her momentary informality he'd stooped to pick up Draco, and carried him into the parlor. He placed the young man on one of the settees, then summoned a house elf to fetch a healer from St. Mungo's, straight away.

As he retreated briefly to his study to fetch a quill and parchment, so he might inform the Ministry of Draco's return, Hermione had gotten the bowl of water and washcloth. She needed to busy herself as they waited.

Like she'd done in the foyer, she shifted Draco just a little, and settled under him to rest his head in her lap. He hadn't been seen since the War, she took this to mean he might not know how much tragedy the War had wrought—he might not know his mother was dead. She thought perhaps it best if the first thing he saw upon having to endure such grim news was a kind face.

Lucius returned, the wax-sealed missive in hand, and an owl perched on his bent arm. He strode hurriedly to the nearest window and sent the bird through with the letter.

She wondered if his hurried steps were a positive sign—perhaps concern for his son was breaking through whatever emotional barricade he faced. Hermione never truly believed his assertion that he was dead inside, though that _was_ perhaps what he told himself, so he didn't have to feel the pain of loss as she did.

True that he would no longer need their arrangement, was such the case, but that didn't matter to her. How could she trouble herself with such a petty condition, if one of them found a more permanent form of solace?

Draco's face was clear, now, and she worried over how much paler he was than the typical porcelain Malfoy complexion. His eyes _were _a dreadful mess, as were his unkempt growth of facial hair, and his lips.

She brought the washcloth to his mouth, but stopped. The delicate skin was so very weathered, and cracked. If she tried to moistened them with water . . . .

Setting aside the washcloth, she shifted beneath him. Digging into her pocket, she came up with a small tin of lip balm. The summer was dryer than usual, and she was having the most horrid time with her own lips chapping, yet she'd forgotten she even carried it on her, 'til just now.

Opening the tin, she smoothed the thinnest of layers onto her little finger. Hermione dipped her head a bit to keep a steady eye on her work as she swept her fingertip, a careful and measured movement, across his lips. She wanted to be as gentle as possible, so she wouldn't cause any further damage.

"Whatever are you doing?"

She didn't look up from her task, didn't see the arch of Lucius' brow, as she replied. "His lips are chapped, if I use water, that'll only make it worse."

Thoughtlessly wiping the remains of the waxy ointment on the palm of her free hand, she lifted her gaze to Lucius. There was a strange flicker in his eyes, she thought—a muted confusion, perhaps? Giving a mental shake, she reminded herself that what went through the man's head was no concern of hers.

"Do you still have any of his clothes?"

"What?"

Hermione bit back a groan, but once more hoped that his confused state was a good sign. "He's wearing _rags_. And this is what he was wearing at the Battle of Hogwarts, which means he's _been_ wearing these for two months. Wouldn't you want to wake up to a fresh set of clothes, under those circumstances?"

She crinkled the bridge of her nose. Under those circumstances, she was glad the younger Malfoy didn't _smell_ like he'd been wearing the same clothes for two months.

Nodding, he summoned the other house elf. Yet the second after he sent the creature to fetch a change of attire for his son—nightclothes, and a bathrobe, as Miss Granger suggested they give him the most comfortable option, given the young man's battered state—he turned curious grey eyes upon the witch.

"Two months ago, and amidst the decisive battle of the Second Wizarding War, yet you recall what Draco was wearing?"

This caught Hermione off-guard. Come to think of it, she couldn't rightly recall what _she'd_ worn that day. Perhaps after her contentious history with Draco Malfoy, upon hearing he'd gone missing, she couldn't help but impress upon her memory the last image she'd seen of him.

Shrugging, she offered a simple, "Yes."

Lucius made another odd face—again, she took his expression to mean he wasn't certain what to make of the information before him. After what seemed a moment's consideration, he turned toward the elf, who was toddling into the room with the bundle of fresh clothes in his arms.

He waved a hand, indicating the grubby wealth of facial hair. "Get that mess off my son's face."

Hermione's eyebrows lifted when Lucius turned back, catching her gaze.

"I'm certain he wouldn't be pleased to wake up and be greeted with all of that the first time he looks in a mirror."

Biting back a smile, she shook her head.

The healer arrived just as the elf had finished with the straight razor—rather an astounding feat, Hermione thought, as the creature had moved around her, and still not missed a spot, nor nicked Draco, at all.

"He's weak, dehydrated . . . malnourished," the witch said as she waved her wand over Draco's body. Dropping her hand, she nodded, offering Hermione an encouraging smile. "You can relax, seems nothing plenty of rest, and a little care won't fix."

Once more Hermione's eyebrows shot up, her eyes widening. The healer's tone made it clear she misunderstood the girl's connection to the wizards in the room. _She must be the young man's girlfriend_ might as well be stamped across the woman's forehead.

Hermione snuck a glance at Lucius' face, and had to hold in a laugh. His expression mirrored her own as he blinked at the back of the healer's head.

"Thank you," the younger witch forced herself to say, smiling. "So we should simply leave him to wake up . . . whenever?"

"Yes, you don't want him expending energy before his body is ready."

After a few more words of comfort, the healer departed, leaving Hermione alone with the Malfoy men, once more. Frowning—certainly, she and Lucius existed under the same roof, and shared each other's beds every few nights, but they didn't interact more than strictly necessary to maintain a civil cohabitation, otherwise—she fidgeted as she and Lucius both looked for anywhere else to turn their attention, but at one another.

Suddenly the weight of Draco's head against her thigh felt like a boulder. She needed to occupy herself . . . . Sighing, she grabbed a pair of small trimming scissors from the grooming kit the elf had used. Taking one of Draco's hands in her own, she set to cleaning and cutting his poor, dirty, torn up nails.

"Where have you been," she whispered, shaking her head as she observed the sad state of his fingers. They were rough, calloused. Honestly, he was a Malfoy, she _highly_ doubted he'd had callouses before his disappearance.

Lucius was beside them in a blink, startling her. She jerked the scissors away, afraid the sudden motion would make her cut Draco.

"Mr. Malfoy," she said, exasperated. "What on earth—?"

"Turn over his arm. I think . . . ." Lucius collected himself—Hermione found a small relief in the man's apparent concern, so she couldn't understand why he seemed troubled by it. "Please, turn over his hand and pull back his sleeve. I believe I saw something."

Worried herself, now, Hermione set aside the scissors and turned Draco's hand in hers. She pulled back his sleeve with her free hand.

"Oh, dear God," she whispered, forcing down a gulp that was equal parts fear and revulsion at the thick, ugly horizontal scars lining the inside of his forearm.

Lucius knelt to examine Draco's other arm. His eyes narrowed as he found the jagged marks there, as well. "Who did this?"

He looked up, meeting Hermione's gaze. She could only shrug, shaking her head. Draco had always been a prat, and a bit of a wretch, but she thought it painfully obvious he'd not done _anything_ worth whatever hell he'd been through.

"Granger . . . what're you doing in my house?"

Hermione gasped, looking into her lap to find Draco's very confused gaze fixed on her face.

She sputtered in her hurry to explain. "Well, um, that's hard to say—but you're okay, that—that's the important thing. You've been examined, and the healer said you just need to rest, and eat properly . . . maybe drink a lot of water." She shook her head, forcing herself to go on. "Anyway, you've been missing for two months. A lot has happened—"

"Two months?" Draco snapped, he lurched upward, trying to pull himself into a sitting position. Groaning behind clenched teeth, he gave up, settling down again. He supposed there were worse things to wake up on than a girl's lap.

"I don't . . . you can't be serious," he said, his voice raspy, and dry, as though his vocal cords had gone unused for quite some time. "Wait . . . ." His roving gaze flicked from Hermione to his father and back. "How'd I get here?"

"You don't remember?"

Draco fixed Hermione with a withering expression she remembered _so _well from Hogwarts. "Would I be asking, otherwise?"

"We don't know how you got here." She glanced at Lucius, who stood back, arms crossed over his chest, as he observed the conversation. "I came 'round from the garden and saw you on the floor inside the entryway."

His eyes squeezed shut as he tried to stretch. "Which brings us back to _why_ are you in my house?"

Again, Hermione glanced as Lucius. His expression was blank, but he'd lifted his eyebrows in a manner that she swore said, _You field this one, chatterbox._

"Well, um," she considered what to say, and the words she knew she had to use reminded her—in the most exquisitely painful way—_why_ she was here. She could feel the tears gathering in her throat, clogging her voice, already. "You see we . . . we lost so many people. The Weasleys, and . . . Harry's gone, and—"

"Potter's dead?" Draco's eyes snapped open. He'd thought that pain in the arse unkillable.

Hermione laughed, in spite of her watery eyes. "No, um, he . . . left, he couldn't take it. I don't even know where he is, off sampling the exotic cuisine of Wizarding Thailand, for all I know. But Draco, you should . . . you should know your mother—"

"Your mother died," Lucius said, the words slow and deliberate, his tone more gentle than Hermione thought the man capable. "I tried to save her, and I was too late. She's hailed as one of the heroes of the War."

She shut her eyes tight a moment, willing her tears away. He'd tried to save Narcissa and failed? No wonder he wanted so much to believe he was dead inside. No one could live with that sort of pain and guilt without going numb. Or mad.

A shuddering breath rumbled out of Draco, and Hermione opened her eyes to find him staring up at her, once more. "My mother is _dead_?"

Blinking rapidly a few times to keep a fresh wash of tears at bay—the strain in his voice, and the sheen in his eyes weren't helping—she forced a nod.

"_That's_ why I'm here. We . . . we both lost so much, and we haven't really had anyone else, so we've sort of been keeping each other company." Dropping her gaze from his, she moistened her suddenly dry lips with the tip of her tongue. "Maybe keeping each other from going mad, is a better way to put it."

Hermione refused to look at Lucius as her _the truth, but not really _explanation hung in the air.

Draco cleared his throat, nodding. "I . . . I see. Well, um," he paused for another forced clearing of his throat. "I understand that, I suppose."

The room fell agonizingly quiet for a stretched moment.

"My mother's dead," Draco said again, his voice hollow as he broke the silence. "I just . . . I don't. I _can't_—"

"Okay, all right," Hermione said, uncertain what to do, as she took one of Draco's hands between her own. "Let's talk about . . . something else. You probably won't be up to a party, but people will _want _to have on for you, being a war hero back from the dead, and all.

"I'm a _what_?"

That distracted him effectively enough, Hermione thought, a watery grin playing on her lips. "The last thing anyone remembers of you before your disappearance is that you were fighting the Death Eaters invading Hogwarts.

"You don't remember how you got here," Lucius interrupted them, his voice low, perhaps thoughtful—Hermione hoped. "What _is_ the last thing you recall?"

Draco winced, pulling himself to sit up, despite Granger making a sound of protest. "I remember the battle. I ended up in the Forest, I remember that."

Hermione's eyes grew wide. "How'd you end up there?"

He shrugged. "You make a mountain troll mad, you get flung."

"Oh."

"But," Draco shook his head, "I remember someone helped me up, and I started back for the castle. And . . . and then . . . ."

She realized he hadn't released her hand, and she tugged on it, drawing his attention back to her. "And then?"

"I don't know. I see quick little flashes, but as soon as I try to really look, they're gone."

"A poorly cast memory charm, perhaps?" Lucius offered.

Hermione bit her lip, taking one of her hands from Draco's to pull back his sleeve. The sight of the scars made her throat constrict and her eyes well all over again. "So then you don't remember who did this to you?"

Draco's already paler-than-usual face went ashen as his jaw fell slack and his grey eyes flew wide. "No. I . . . I don't . . . ." He met her gaze, fear written in his expression. "Granger, I don't know how I got these!"

He was getting frantic, but he didn't have the energy or the stamina just now for his body to sustain his erratic emotional state. His shoulders slumped and he fought to catch his breath.

"Hey, hey!" Hermione relinquished her grip on his fingers entirely and brought her hands up to cup his face. "Draco? Draco, look at me!"

He dragged his glassy, weary gaze to meet hers.

"It will be okay. I'm going to help you, all right?"

He nodded, blinking hard.

She smiled, trying for encouragement. "We'll figure out who did this to you. I promise."

Draco granted her an exhausted grin. "How can you be so confident?"

"Haven't you heard," she said, shrugging, "I'm the brightest witch of the age! _And_ . . . you Malfoys have more money than God. I'm sure between your pockets, and my brains, we'll sort this, no problem."

Lucius stepped from the room to tell the house elves to bring water and food for Draco. The sound of his son—his miraculously _alive _son—chuckling at Miss Granger's declaration followed him.

His eyes drifted closed and his shoulders slumped. The sound should bring him peace, as the sight of him should have brought joy, earlier.

So why did this terrible, aching emptiness claw at him, still?


	3. Scar

**I APOLOGIZE FOR SO FEW UPDATES THIS WEEK, I had a bit of family drama that kept me from getting into the proper headspace for writing.**

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**STORY SPECIFIC NOTE****: So there is no confusion, I double-checked on the HP wiki regarding **_**Obliviate**_**, the memory charm we all know & love. According to JK Rowling, the charm Hermione used on her parents was not **_**Oblivate**_**, but rather a **_**false memory charm**_**, incantation unknown—she didn't **_**remove**_** their memories, she **_**altered**_** them (interesting note, the only other character mentioned to have used this was Voldemort)—which was why it could be undone. As it stands per canon, the only known way to break the **_**Obliviate**_** charm is torture.**

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***DRESSING GOWN = ROBE (she is NOT naked, as one reader unfortunately believed in this chapter- she gets upset because she has already put on her nightdress [nightgown], and Lucius stops her to tell her to put on a robe! *facepalm*) **

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**Author's Notes****: **

**1) I have officially pulled **_**The Scavengers**_** from all sites, as I have submitted the revised, fully-original version to my publisher for consideration. I apologize to anyone who wanted to read the story, but hadn't yet, and anyone who might've been interrupted mid-read. I'll keep you posted on what's happening with that.**

**2) ****My current, in-progress fics are all 5 chapters or under. Therefore, I will focus on pulling them all up to their 5th chapters, & then get them on a set rotation, so you guys have a clearer schedule of when to expect updates. :)**

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**My other **_**HP **_**Fanfictions****:**

_A Night Unfettered _(Dramione [**One-Shot**, Lemon])

_Dame Blanche _(Dramione/Harmione [possible Drarry])

_Distractions _([PwP] Dramione/Harmione/Drarry [_only_ on AFF. Net; **at 5****th**** chapter**])

_Hermione Granger and the Chaos Artifact_ (Dramione/Harmione/Drarry [**at 5****th**** chapter**])

_Lessons in Hedonism _([PwP] Draco-Hermione-Blaise [_only _on AFF. Net])

**NEW! **_Mortality _([AU] Dramione)

_Nights at Malfoy Manor_ (Dramione/Bits of Lumione) **COMPLETE!**

_Silver Blood_ ([DARK FIC] Dramione/Harmione [**at 5****th**** chapter**])

_Teach Me _(Dramione/Scormione [18 yr old. Scorpius; **at 5****th**** chapter**])

_Unnatural Magick_ ([AU] Harmione/Dramione in Flashbacks)

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**Chapter Three**

Scar

The elves had taken Draco to the bath after Miss Granger had helped him get down some food and water. Though how little he managed was a bad thing, she said—it must've meant he hadn't eaten in a long time. This upset her, the healer had said he was malnourished, she must not have realized how bad it was, assuming he'd eaten poorly, rather than barely at all.

She'd nattered on as she brought spoonfuls of stew to Draco's lips, despite his protests that he was capable feeding himself. He complained each time, and yet each time, she got her way. Interesting effect she had, Lucius thought. In her nattering, she explained that contrary to what most believed, when faced with food, a starved person might _feel _as though they could eat every bite—the physical reality, however, was that the individual's stomach shrank a bit, and simply couldn't handle that much work.

Miss Granger had spent the rest of the evening in the library, combing through one dusty, leather-bound tome after another in search of suggestions on how one might break a memory charm. Aside from the infliction of a horrific amount of pain, which was _not _an option, Lucius wasn't certain any such information existed, but she was insistent.

He was beginning to get the feeling there was no arguing with the woman.

Lucius rested an elbow on his desk, sipping his drink as he thought back over the day's events. More specifically, on his reactions to what had occurred. His pitiful, terrible _lack _of reaction, if he were honest with himself.

He tried to care, he tried to feel something, _anything _. . . . Yet no more came. Nothing stirred, save for the mild ripple of relief. Relief he was certain arose from notion that he'd not let down Narcissa, after all. More than a few times over these two months, he'd imagined her sitting in some great beyond with Draco, disappointed that Lucius had allowed _both_ of their lives to slip through his fingers.

He'd helped his son from the bath, himself; waited patiently, averting his gaze, as the elves dressed the young man in the comfortable nightclothes Miss Granger had requested. Hoisting Draco's arm around his shoulders, he led him, with slow, ginger steps, to his room.

As Lucius assisted him to lay in his bed and pulled the covers up over him—the very action reminiscent of tucking in a child, he thought—he believed he felt a glimmer of sorrow at how fragile his son seemed. He didn't_ look _frail, or diminished, beyond the loss of little weight. Perhaps the notion came from not knowing what Draco had suffered during his absence, and the delicate, careful way the younger wizard moved, as though fearing he'd injure himself.

Still, a glimmer _was_ something, wasn't it? Yet nothing more followed after.

His continued emptiness only caused a sense of unease to settle over him. Despite his attempt to mask it, he knew Miss Granger had seen it. That was fine, he supposed, as she could be no more confused, or perhaps even disappointed, with his emotionless state than he was.

Though that train of thought, itself, bothered him. Why should it matter to him if she was confused—_or_ disappointed—by anything involving him?

He brought the glass to his lips, yet as he tipped it back, he found he'd already drained the last drops of liquid. Frowning he set down the glass and reached for the bottle. Biting his lip, he paused, a pained groan rumbling in the back of his throat.

The center of his chest ached. Hollow, and empty, and agonizing. He'd never imagined emptiness could hurt before all of this had befallen him, yet there it was.

Forcing a sigh, he looked to the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. Past midnight, already? He'd not even realized.

Looking back to the glass, and the half-empty bottle beyond it, Lucius pushed away from his desk and stood.

* * *

Hermione awoke slowly—eyes closed, yet a smile curving her lips—to the feel of fingers tracing along her thighs. The soft ends of his long hair brushed her skin as he moved over her beneath the covers.

The sensation of his lips skimming her flesh as he slid his hands beneath her to part her legs stole her breath and sent a bashful flare of warmth into her face. During the first week, she'd realized it simply easier to sleep nude, keeping a nightdress on her bedside table. It saved time and fuss on nights like this. Now, as she felt him settle on the bed, and lift her thighs to rest over his shoulders—the brush of his bare skin against hers meaning he had fully undressed before crawling beneath her covers—she was grateful of such forethought.

Biting her lip, she anxiously curled her hands into the blanket. The tips of his fingers slid over her, parting delicate, feminine skin and she shuddered, a pleading whimper wrenching out of her throat at the feel of his warm breath against her.

He leaned close, lapping at her and she gasped. Invited by her response, he swirled the tip of his tongue, once, twice, before burying his mouth between her thighs, sealing his lips around the little bead of flesh. Lucius suckled and nipped at her, a growl like sound rumbling from him when she reached beneath the covers to grip her fingers into his hair.

Hermione tilted her hips, trying to push herself more firmly against his working mouth. He was stubborn at first, taunting her, refusing to quicken his pace; the sweet pressure of his tongue, and ever-so-gentle grazing of his teeth, steady.

Yet, when she let out another whimper, he gave in—pressing closer, stroking her faster, holding her more tightly to him.

She threw her head back, moaning behind closed lips as she tensed under him. He shifted a little, slipping his hands to cup her bottom, assisting her in lifting herself higher, still, against his mouth. A fine tremor ran through her as she froze and he made another growling sound, drawing on her harder, and faster as she came.

He guided her through her orgasm, quickening his strokes again, and again, until the tension in her body slipped away. Until she relaxed in his hold, her hips bucking against his ministrations as delicious little aftershocks coursed and trembled.

When her form eased entirely, he pulled back, listening to her catch her breath. He relinquished his hold on her, tugging the covers away to push them to the foot of the bed.

Hermione watched him, her gaze a bit hazy, as he rose up on his knees. She felt truly stunned for a moment, color flooding her cheeks once more as she stared up at him. Who'd have thought the sight of Lucius Malfoy kneeling above her, naked and hard, illuminated by nothing more than dull, shifting moonlight through gauzy curtains would be quite so breathtaking?

He titled his head to one side, long pale hair falling over his shoulder as he watched her expression. For the briefest moment, the motion reminded her more of some bizarre, exotic creature than a man. She recognized the meaning of the sideways nod he gave as he trailed his gaze along her body.

Yet she didn't move.

With the faintest trace of the classic Malfoy smirk curving one corner of his mouth upward, he said in a gravelly whisper, "Turn over, Miss Granger."

Teeth sinking into her bottom lip, she waited another moment. He arched a brow and she broke into a grin, at last rolling onto her stomach. She rose up on her knees and her elbows, resting her weight on her forearms. A sigh escaped him, and she knew she'd positioned herself just as he wanted.

Clamping his fingers over one of her hips, he held his length with his free hand, guiding his head into her, slowly. When he felt he was inside_ just _enough, he let go, taking hold of her other hip.

He thrust his pelvis, pushing inside her in one sharp, hard motion.

Hermione pressed her face into the mattress, muffling an ecstatic scream. She barely had time to pull back from the cushioning surface, to catch a quick breath before he withdrew, almost entirely, and plunged forward again.

She bit her lip, holding in a moan as she rocked back, sliding herself around his fast, hard thrusting. Again, she heard him making that delightful growling sound and she pressed her shoulders closer to the bed, tilting her hips to make him sink deeper.

He gave a pained groan, his fingers digging into her flesh as he pulled on her. "I see you've been learning, Miss Granger," he said, breathless as he continued rocking himself against her backward motions.

Hermione couldn't help a winded giggle, speaking over her shoulder, "I _have_ always been an exceptional student, Mr. Malfoy. Just never expected that would apply to _this_."

Lucius chuckled, but then she tensed, her body clenching, warm and wet, around his thrusting length and he growled, once more. Gripping her hips tighter, he quickened his pace.

She could feel him trembling against her, could tell he was close, suddenly. Pressing harder into the bed for leverage, she rocked back against him in steady motions, taking charge entirely as he stilled.

His head fall forward and he groaned behind clenched teeth as she slid around his length again, and again, coaxing every last bit from him.

When he was finished, he used his hands on her to ease her to a halt. As he caught his breath, he withdrew from her.

Lucius sat back on his heels, his hands falling to rest against his thighs.

Hermione, her own breath still heavy, was already reaching for her covers. Yet, that was when she noticed that he was making no move to leave. She sometimes fell asleep in his bed afterward, certainly—and he allowed it—but he'd never stayed in hers longer than it took to calm his breathing. Blinking rapidly in confusion, she watched as he shifted, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, and leaning forward to rest his elbows against his knees.

"Mr. Malfoy," she said, her voice soft in the instantly, and painfully, silent room, "what's wrong?"

He scowled at the floor, though what the rug pattern had ever done to warrant such a contemptible expression was anyone's guess. Surely, he could explain it to her, he realized. She was the only one he_ could_ talk to, after all—the only one who knew what the War had done to him.

"I fear I have become a monster, Miss Granger."

"What?"

With a weighted sigh, he elaborated. "I cannot think of any other thing to explain what I am now."

Frowning, Hermione turned away a moment. She grabbed her nightdress from the bedside table and slipped it on before climbing out of the bed to kneel before him, staring up into his face.

His gaze was clear, and empty, and he wore the same mildly confused, uneasy expression he had in the parlor earlier with Draco.

"No," she said, clasping her hands in her lap as she searched his face. "The old you, the person you were _before_, he was a monster. Now, you're just a man who lost the things even that monster knew were important to him."

Lucius smirked, shaking his head. "Oh, Miss Granger, how I wish I could see the world as you do. Perhaps you'll have some insight, then, which I do not possess."

Arching a brow, Hermione's shoulders drooped. Her gaze followed him as he stood and stepped around the bed to retrieve the nightclothes he'd left on the floor.

"Insight into what, exactly?"

"Why would I come into your room at this hour?" He asked as he dressed, the black silk a striking contrast to his pale countenance.

"You come in to alleviate your numbness," as the last word fell from her lips, her eyes widened, and her eyebrows lifted a little.

"If the loss of Narcissa and Draco is what caused my condition, as it were, then why does having one of them back not ease this burden of . . . of _nothingness_?"

"Really?" She pouted, climbing to her feet. "You haven't felt a thing?"

He shrugged. "Small little . . . flickers," he said, his voice soft, thoughtful. "Like the flame of a dying candle. There for the briefest moment, and then . . . " he brought his fingers to his mouth and then blew on them as he let them fall away—a snuffing-out gesture. "Gone."

"Maybe you're in shock," she reasoned.

Lucius furrowed his brow, regarding the young woman as through she'd just spoken gibberish.

She frowned at his expression. "You've spent all this time convinced he was dead, maybe it's simply going to take a little while before it really sinks in that he's _truly_ here. And maybe, once it does sink in, some of what you lost will come back."

His brow smoothed as he held her dark-eyed gaze, considering her words.

A scream tore through the Manor, giving them both a start.

Before Hermione even realized she was moving, she was at the door ahead of Lucius. As she set foot in the corridor, he grabbed her shoulder.

"What?" She snapped, sudden impatience coloring her tone.

"Honestly, Miss Granger, put on a dressing gown," he said in a hiss as he slipped past her and hurried toward Draco's room.

"Oh, you can_not_ be serious, right now!"

She was on his heels all the way down the corridor. Another scream sounded as he turned the knob, throwing open the door.

Draco was thrashing in his bed.

Lucius entered, but only stared, uncertain what to do. "Is he having a fit?"

Rolling her eyes, Hermione darted into the room. "Probably just a nightmare, but it doesn't matter. He doesn't have the strength for this."

Hurrying to his bedside, she sat carefully beside his pillow, catching Draco's flailing hand in one of hers, as she delicately smoothed his damp hair back from his forehead with the other.

He jumped at her touch, trying to tug out of her grasp, but he was too weak.

"Draco? Draco," she said, leaning close to his ear so she needn't shout over his harsh and frenzied breaths. "Draco, it's Hermione, I'm here. Wake up, _please_!"

The young man started awake. His grey eyes were wide, and shadowed, and still terribly bruised-looking. As he fought to catch his breath, his entire frame shook.

"Granger," he whispered, letting his lids drift closed. "Funny, you're probably the last girl I ever thought I'd find in my bed."

Hermione couldn't help a surprised laugh, relieved that he was clearly all right—and a little awkward over his choice of words, what with Lucius standing at the foot of the bed, observing everything.

"Were you dreaming? Why did you scream like that?"

Draco met his father's gaze and nodded his head. "I think . . . I think I was reliving getting these scars."

"You remember what happened?" She was back to stroking his hair away from his forehead, but she knew it was more of a nervous gesture, at the moment. She wanted him to remember, but not if the recollection was going to put him through such torment.

At this Draco shook his head, looking up at her. "No," he said, pausing to swallow hard. "I just . . . it was only this blade cutting into me, again and again."

Hermione restrained herself—but just barely—from using her hand on his to pull his arm into her lap so that she might examine his scars again.

"But I didn't see anything. Maybe," Draco's entire body seemed to droop as his battered eyes closed and he rolled his head against his pillow. "Maybe I was blindfolded, or . . . blinded with a curse."

"That might explain why your eyes are such a mess," she said, her voice a low and thoughtful whisper, though she didn't recall a blinding spell of any sort. Though, if the culprit used a self-made curse, that probably _did_, very well, explain the state of Draco's poor eyes.

"Try to think about something else," she insisted, suddenly. She didn't want him focusing on his ordeal—regardless of how little he actual recollected—or he might never sleep well, again. "You need to rest. A lot."

Draco nodded, the movement appearing slow and painful. "I'll try, but I don't . . . ." He turned his head back toward her, forcing his eyes open to meet her gaze. "Look, Granger, I know this is probably a bit much to ask, but would you stay here?"

"Stay?" She echoed the word, her brow furrowing a though she didn't understand.

"If I fall asleep and start screaming, again. You could wake me straight away." He bit his lip, shaking his head before going on, "I don't want to remember it again. _Please_?"

As Hermione opened her mouth to reply, Draco's gaze snapped to his father. The propriety with which he'd been raised, and the idea of how inappropriate his request probably seemed to the man, popping into his head, suddenly.

"I'm sorry, Father. Of course, I only mean—"

"I think that is a good idea, Draco," Lucius said, his voice a low tumble of words as he gave that tight-lipped Malfoy smile and nodded.

Hermione looked from one former dark wizard to the other, and back. Certainly, she'd been about to agree, but that didn't make her happy with the idea that the decision had been taken from her hands. Yet, she thought there was something buried in Lucius' tone.

Perhaps he was disappointed that his son had not asked _him_ to stay? But then maybe Draco and Lucius didn't have the sort of father-son relationship that allowed him to ask such weak-sounding things.

Lucius stepped around the bed, then, reaching out to take his son's free hand in his for the smallest moment. "Get some rest."

Draco nodded, his eyes drifting closed once more.

"Good night, Miss Granger," Lucius said as he turned away and crossed the room.

She darted her gaze about the room, setting her jaw as she tried to figure out just what happened. "Good night, Mr. Malfoy."

* * *

Draco fell asleep quickly, and Hermione drifted off, herself, not long after, curled up with her back against the headboard. She felt certain she'd woken half-way a few times during the rest of the night to find Draco's head pillowed on her lap, as it had been on the settee in the parlor that afternoon.

Strangely, she didn't seem to mind. She would simply swipe her fingers across his forehead to smooth his hair away, once more, and fall back to sleep.

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**((A/N: Because clearly, whenever I have a fic that takes place in Malfoy Manor, it must involve nightmares, smutty moments, screaming, and people running about the corridors in the middle of the night. XD ))**


	4. Wound

**Author's Note****:**

_**Nights at Malfoy Manor**_** may be pulled from all sites as soon as next week. The revisions on the original, novel-version are almost complete. I will keep you guys posted as best I can on this. So if you've been curious about the fic, but haven't checked it out yet, or wanted to read it again, now would be the time :)**

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**My other **_**HP**_ **Fa****nfictions:**

_A Night Unfettered _(Dramione [**One-Shot**, Lemon])

_Dame Blanche _(Dramione/Harmione [possible Drarry])

_Distractions _([PwP] Dramione/Harmione/Drarry [_only_ on AFF. Net; **at 5th chapter**])

_Hermione Granger and the Chaos Artifact_ (Dramione/Harmione/Drarry [**at 5th chapter**])

_Lessons in Hedonism _([PwP] Draco-Hermione-Blaise [_only _on AFF. Net])

**NEW!** _Mortality _([AU] Dramione)

_Nights at Malfoy Manor_ (Dramione/Bits of Lumione) **COMPLETE!**

_Silver Blood_ ([DARK FIC] Dramione/Harmione [**at 5th chapter**])

_Teach Me _(Dramione/Scormione [18 yr old. Scorpius;**at 5th chapter**])

_Unnatural Magick_ ([AU] Harmione/Dramione in Flashbacks)

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**Chapter Four**

Wound

_Draco groaned from between clenched teeth, the pain from the impact rattling through his bones. For a moment, he simply lay in the sparsely grassed forest floor, his eyes squeezed shut as he tried to estimate how badly he was injured._

_He squared his jaw, then rolled his wrists and ankles, followed by bending his knees and elbows, each movement slow and deliberate. Nothing important was broken, and he let out a sigh of relief._

_"Oh, dear Merlin," he heard not far from him._

_Before he could look, someone was already helping him to his feet._

_"Were you in the battle, are you all right?"_

_"Yes, and . . ." Draco shook his head, getting his bearings. "And I don't know, I think I'm okay. I have to get back there."_

_The person's hands were at his back, steadying him. "Are you sure? You don't look—"_

_Draco stepped out of the person's reach, glancing back over his shoulder so fast he barely caught a glimpse of whoever stood behind him. "I'm sure. I _have _to get back."_

_"Why?"_

_Forcing a gulp, Draco blinked hard nodding determinedly as he started toward Hogwarts. "Because it's all my fault."_

_As he crossed the border of the Forbidden Forest, he felt a trickle of liquid down his back. He frowned, reaching a hand beneath his tattered shirt as he moved. Had he landed in a puddle?_

_Merlin's beard! He'd_ had_ a wand, and now . . . Grousing inwardly, he shook his head—it must've slipped from his grasp while he was airborne._

_Draco brought his hand forward. He halted at the sight of wet crimson smearing his palm. Swallowing hard, he wondered just how bad the damage was. Perhaps he was in shock and couldn't feel it._

_Letting out a shaky breath, he turned his head and looked over his shoulder, trying to look down his back. Of course, the effort proved useless._

_He lifted his gaze in time to see a brilliant flash of light zipping straight toward him._

* * *

Draco's body jumped, snapping him awake. In the still-dark room, he darted his gaze about, forgetting where he was for a moment.

The faintest hint of illumination filtered in from the curtained windows as his room—his own room in Malfoy Manor—swam into focus around him. Just how dull the light from outside was told him it was probably still very early in the morning. Or there was a storm, either option seemed a valid excuse for pulling his covers up over his head and drifting back to sleep.

Then the previous day's events flooded back to him.

He lay on his side, facing the windows, cocooned in his covers. But he distinctly recalled . . . . Teeth sinking into his bottom lip, Draco looked over his shoulder.

Granger lay there, curled into a ball in nothing more than a nightdress. True to her word, she'd actually stayed.

And after everything he'd put her through when they were children.

Frowning, he mustered his strength—what little he'd gained back of it—and rolled over, unwinding the blankets from himself as he moved. He tugged them up, over her, dropping the covers into place as delicately as he could, so as not to wake her.

His frown deepened as he watched her face, so peaceful in sleep. Such an odd thing, really, that she was _here_, at all. But that wasn't what troubled him.

What she'd said yesterday about how he'd be celebrated as a hero . . . . That unsettled him. He was no hero. His own fear was what brought about the Second Wizarding War.

Every loss was on his head, yet they wanted to pat him on the back for subduing a handful of Death Eaters?

Every loss his fault. That had to mean that even his mother's death was his burden.

Forcing his eyes closed, he swallowed hard. With a deep breath, he pushed away the terrible realization.

The physical exertion of moving to cover Granger, and the sudden upwelling of emotional turmoil had a draining effect. Before he knew it, he was drifting back to sleep.

* * *

Hermione drited awake, an oddly foreign sense of warmth on comfort settled over her. Shifting a bit, she realized there was the weight of covers over her.

Opening her eyes, the first thing she saw was Draco's slumbering face. His very-close-to-her slumbering face. Frowning thoughtfully, she looked about, realizing that at some point, she must've scooted down the bed and burrowed beneath the covers, beside him.

Not that she was wholly unaccustomed to waking in a Malfoy's bed, but this was . . . _different_. Usually, when she awoke beside Lucius, she simply stretched, pulled on her nightdress and dressing gown, and returned to her own room.

She felt no inclination to leave. Rather, as she stared into Draco's sleeping face, she found she simply wanted to snuggle under the covers more securely and fall back to sleep.

But then, as she shifted again, she noticed one of his arms bent up, his hand beside his head on the pillow. His position snagged his sleeve, exposing the scars on the inside of his wrist.

Raising up on her elbow, she bit her lip, staring at the marks for a quiet moment. Before she realized she was moving, she'd reached across him, tracing over one of the thick, jagged lines with curious fingertips.

"Granger, what are you doing?"

Hermione started, her gaze snapping from her fingers on his skin to his face. Bruised, bleary grey eyes stared up at her. It occurred to her to pull away her hand, but she simply . . . didn't.

His eyebrows shot up in response to her silence.

"Well, this is awkward," she said, forcing out the words.

"You could just ask."

Chestnut eyes widened. "I'm sorry?"

"If you want to examine my scars so badly, you could just ask," he whispered, his tone exhausted.

"Oh . . . ." This was the moment she realized she still had her arm stretched across his body—still had her fingers pressed gently to the inside of his wrist.

"Or you could just stay on top of me, that works, too."

The touch of snarky humor in his voice gave her a jolt as she understood how ridiculous she was being—honestly, it was like she didn't have control of herself! Aware a blush was flooding her cheeks, but unable to do anything to stop it, she forced an embarrassed laugh.

A sheepish grin curving her lips, she pulled back her arm and sat up. "Right, sorry."

"And she acts like that was a complaint," he said to no one, chuckling. Awkwardly clearing his throat, he began pushing himself to sit up, as well.

"No, don't," Hermione resumed her fussing from yesterday, thoughtlessly slipping her shoulder beneath his arm and assisting him.

As soon as he was seated properly, he tugged out of her hold. "Will you stop fussing!"

Frowning, she turned her head sharply to meet his gaze. He was actually angry. Angry that she was helping him? Why the nerve of some people!

"I will not," she said, indignant as she propped her hands on her hips. "We have no idea what you've been through. Other than an assurance that you'll eventually be okay, we don't know how long it may take you to get your strength back. So no, I will not stop fussing until _I_ am sure you don't need the help. Not you, nor your father, not even some healer from St. Mungo's—_me_, all right?"

Draco shrank back a little, grey eyes widening as much as they could, for the dark, too-slowly-healing skin surrounding them. "All right."

"Hmph." Squaring her shoulders, she took one of his wrists in her hand and turned it over.

He watched in silence as she pulled back his sleeve and bent her head over his arm. Her touch was soft, the press of her fingertips trailing against the scars delicate as she mumbled sounds of curiosity.

"Don't know what you think this is going to tell you," he said in an unhappy whisper.

She sat back only enough that he could see the thoughtful, determined expression on her face, her gaze still on the marred skin. "Well, I was hoping that a better look at them might give me some clue as to what they used to make the cuts."

"I would guess a knife. Whatever was handy for torture, maybe?"

Hermione swallowed hard, but didn't look up at him. He was joking, she understood that, but his words struck a painful chord for her.

"Yes, but . . . different types of blades leave different marks, you know," she said in a low tumble of words.

Instantly, his gaze shot to her neck. He couldn't see anything from this angle, but he remembered what Bellatrix had done to her. Shaking his head, he shut out her remembered screams.

And yet, she sat in the very house where she endured such a thing. Was she completely mental?

"I'm sorry, Granger, I didn't mean it like that, I just . . . I just forgot."

She lifted her face, holding his gaze for a long, painfully silent moment, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Clearly thinking on the matter, she finally nodded to whatever was going through her mind and tipped her head back.

"See," she said softly, tracing the scar along her throat with the forefinger of her free hand. "I've looked at it a thousand times. I remember your aunt with that little silver knife. I wonder if the blade had been made of another metal, or it had been larger, or the edge different. I wonder what the scar might've looked like, then."

Forcing a gulp Draco reached out, touching her scar ever so gingerly.

A shuddering breathe escaped her, and she struggled to quiet it. Hermione hadn't actually expected he'd touch the bloody thing! He couldn't possibly know how sensitive the skin there was, now.

"There's a difference," he whispered, dropping his gaze to his own scars as his fingers fell away. "You didn't deserve yours."

She dropped her head, her gaze locking on his down-turned face. "What?"

"You heard what I said."

Grimacing, she tugged his sleeve back to his elbow and then reached across him, doing the same with his other arm. Shifting over to sit on her knees in front of him, she took hold of his hands and lifted his forearms in front of his face.

"Look at them, I mean that. Really, _really_ look." She shook her head, wondering how she would get him to help her figure out what happened to him if he had some reason to believe it a question best left unanswered.

After a moment—after she was positive he'd given the scars a glimpse, least, she tugged his arms back down, gripping his hands in hers as she searched his gaze. "Draco Malfoy, you tell me how you could possibly think _anyone _deserves this."

"I'm the one responsible for all of it. I let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts; I was the reason Snape killed Dumbledore. That started everything. That started the War."

Her eyes rolled. "Oh, just . . . stop. You may not know this, but I'm one of the few people who knows what really happened. I know Voldemort would've killed you if you hadn't gone through with what was planned. He used you—he used your fear. That's what he did, found people's weaknesses and used them, period. For you it was fear, for your father, it was loyalty to someone who wanted to institute pureblood supremacy, but that loyalty _also_ turned into fear. Everyone had something, and he exploited it."

He bit hard into his lip, remaining silent as he shook his head.

She gripped his hands tighter. "Believe me, it's taken a _lot_ of soul-searching to come to terms with not blaming your family for what happened. But . . . I once heard somewhere that a person can only be held accountable for their _own_ choices. And a choice made out of fear, or under torment, is hardly one's own, now is it?"

Draco had to clear his throat before he could answer—why should _she_ want reason to not blame his family? "When you put it that way . . . ."

"The person responsible for what happened_ was_ Voldemort. The person responsible for the lives lost during the War," she paused as his head snapped up, his eyes on hers—he knew she understood what he'd been getting at, "_was_ Voldemort. You and your father are a mess, both of you. Neither one of you is any more responsible for the horror Voldemort wrought than I am."

He feigned an indignant scowl, trying hard not to find comfort in her words—and failing. "Well, then it's a good thing you stumbled along to sort us out then, isn't it, Granger?"

"It certainly is!" Giving a thoughtful, determined pout, she went right back to examining his scars. "So these are the only marks on you? They didn't cut you anywhere else?"

A dark brow shot up into his pale hair. This had been far too serious a discussion. "I didn't see any, but you're welcome to double check."

Hermione's head snapped up, her jaw hanging slack as she choked out a surprised laugh. Pushing his hands out of her lap, she slid off the bed to stand.

"Draco Malfoy, you behave yourself. I'm going to go find Tuly or Breny," she said, refusing to refer to them as _the servants_, or _those blasted elves, _as Lucius always did. "Have them bring you some breakfast, as you're clearly delirious from hunger. Maybe I'll look up a salve I can make for the bruises 'round your eyes, while I'm at it."

"Right," he chuckled as he blindly pulled his pillows up against the headboard so he could lean back. "Listen about what you said yesterday . . . that everyone would want to throw a party for me—"

"They do. Already got an owl from the Ministry last night before I went to bed. Once you're feeling better, they're going to pack every wizard who's any wizard into Malfoy Manor . . . it'll be a mess of poppers, and crepe paper."

Again, he laughed, his eyebrows shooting up. "Well, that_ does_ sound lovely, but can't you just tell them I don't want one?"

"Well, since I've already decided I'm not going to listen to you about this 'wah, I don't deserve it' rubbish, I'm just going to say 'since when does the Ministry care what anyone wants?'"

He watched her spin on a heel and take a few steps toward the door. "And for Merlin's sake, woman, put on a dressing gown!"

Gasping, Hermione whirled right around to find him grinning playfully. Well, she never thought she'd hear or see anything of the like from Draco Malfoy directed at _her_. But then they were no longer on opposite sides of a war, were they? So much had changed in such a short time.

This was not the Draco Malfoy she'd grown up with. Perhaps she was no longer the Hermione Granger he'd grown up with, either.

Shaking her head, she met his playful grin with a smirk and an arched brow. "Please, Malfoy—like you've got the strength to back up that look."

He chuckled in spite of himself, his own head shaking as she exited the room.

Hermione was giggling, still, as she thoughtlessly made a beeline toward her room to grab her dressing gown. She stopped short as she reached the door.

"Oh, god," she whispered, blinking rapidly several times. _Was I _really_ just flirting with Draco_ _Malfoy?_

As she opened the door and stepped into her room, she attempted to find the proper words with which to admonish herself, but . . . nothing would come. Perhaps because the interaction had felt so strangely natural, and comfortable.

Eyebrows drawing together, she fretted as she grabbed up her dressing gown and slipped it on, belting it tightly. She was sleeping with Lucius, how on earth was flirting with Draco _natural_? Of course, Draco hadn't a clue, but that was wholly beside the point!

She forced herself to draw a deep breath. Letting it out slowly, she shook her hands as she tried to calm herself. What the bloody hell was she doing?

"Okay, calm down, Hermione, calm down! Everything will work out, somehow," she muttered as she went back to her door and stepped into the corridor.

She simply had to not think about it, that was all. She and Draco were connecting on an emotional level, and her arrangement with Lucius was only physical.

And she . . . she could walk away from her arrangement with Lucius at any time.

Hermione halted, a sigh of relief tearing out of her. Of course, she was under no obligation to Lucius. And she and Draco had only flirted a very little bit. There was no cause for alarm. If things got out of control, she could simply leave.

As she passed Lucius' door, it swung open. "Ah, Miss Granger."

She nearly jumped out of her skin, spinning on a heel, wide-eyed to face the elder Malfoy. Thank heavens she didn't have a wand in her hand!

Her startled expression caused him to give one of his own, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead. "Miss Granger?"

"Sorry," she said, her voice shaky as she pressed a palm over her heart. "Didn't notice you, there. Must—must have a lot on my mind, just now."

"Mm," was all he offered in response. He held out a bowl, filled a pleasant-smelling paste-like substance. "Here."

Furrowing her brow, she accepted the bowl. "What's—"

"It's a dressing . . . for Draco's eyes."

Hermione glanced up from the bowl to meet Lucius' gaze. "That's an odd coincidence. I was actually going to see that the elves brought him something to eat and then go look for . . . ." Her words slid off as she peeked around his arm.

Beyond the threshold of his bedroom, books lay scattered and open about the floor. A mortar and pestle, surrounded by glass jars of varied ingredients, were only a few centimeters from the reading material. She looked into the bowl once more, then inspected his face. There were faint circles under his eyes.

"You never went to sleep after you left Draco's room? You've been awake for hours sorting through how to make this?"

His brows pulled together as though he didn't comprehend why she was surprised. "Of course I have, Miss Granger. At this moment, there is not much else I am able to do to help him."

He stepped past her into the corridor, and she shifted the bowl into one hand, catching him by the elbow with the other.

Glancing back at her over his shoulder, he lifted his eyebrows. "Miss Granger?"

"I don't understand. Why hand this to me? Why aren't you going to put this on him?"

Lucius gave that small, tight-lipped smile of his. "I thought you could that, while I see to the servants about breakfast. You have a gentler touch than I, Miss Granger."

Hermione let her fingers slip from his arm. "Rubbish! You're avoiding him. Why?"

His shoulders slumped as he turned to face her fully. "Because I fear if I am around him too much, my state will become obvious to him. I do not believe that he should see me like this after whatever he has been through."

With a nod, he turned away and started down the corridor, toward the staircase.

Hermione watched after him, only drifting back toward Draco's room when Lucius had vanished entirely from sight. In front of Draco's door, she couldn't help glancing back over her shoulder, at the staircase.

Could Lucius really be as dead inside as he claimed, and still care that his state might hurt Draco? Sighing, she shook her head and forced herself to step into the room.

The girl took a deep breath as she pushed her thoughts away, focusing on the task at hand. She couldn't remember the last time she felt this confused.

* * *

**((A/N: Hermione's meltdown and immediate, self-soothing inward chat? Because even the brightest witch of the age can experience denial ;) ))**


	5. Drip

**Please Note: Additions have been made to this chapter since posting. That's what I get for writing when I'm half asleep.**

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**As this is the 5****th**** chapter, Tourniquet now is on hold until **_**Dame Blanche**_**, **_**Lessons in Hedonism**_**, **_**Mortality**_**, **_**Unnatural Magick**_**, & **_**Wizard Theory**_** all hit their 5****th**** chapters, as well. Unlike my choice with**_** Mortality **_**& **_**Wizard Theory**_**, any new fics that may start after this point will simply be added into the update schedule as-is, rather than making you guys wait until they're up to their 5****th**** chapters (as I currently have 2 plunnies waiting in the wings).**

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**My other **_**H****P **_**Fanfictions****:**

_A Night Unfettered _(Dramione [**One-Shot**, Lemon])

_Dame Blanche _(Dramione/Harmione [possible Drarry])

_Distractions _([PwP] Dramione/Harmione/Drarry [_only_ on AFF. Net])

_Hermione Granger and the Chaos Artifact_ (Dramione/Harmione/Drarry)

_Lessons in Hedonism _([PwP] Draco-Hermione-Blaise [_only _on AFF. Net])

_Mortality _([AU] Dramione)

_Nights at Malfoy Manor_ (Dramione/Bits of Lumione) **COMPLETE!**

_Silver Blood_ ([DARK FIC] Dramione/Harmione)

_Teach Me _(Dramione/Scormione [18 yr old. Scorpius])

_Unnatural Magick_ ([AU] Harmione/Dramione in Flashbacks)

**NEW!**_ Wizard Theory_ ([AU] Dramione/Harmione/Drarry)

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**Chapter Five**

Drip

Despite Draco's continued protests, the Ministry-backed celebration of his return to the land of the living took place. And the young man had put up quite the fuss about the matter, surprising Lucius somewhat. Draco's strength could be drained from Miss Granger's insistence on making him perform simple, mechanical tasks designed to reacquaint his muscles with frequent use, and yet he would manage to pull himself to sit up and argue with her at the top of his lungs whenever the subject reared its head.

And Miss Granger was certainly a busy thing as of late. Ordering books on magical remedies from foreign Wizarding communities, playing nursemaid and . . . what was the term she used? Physical Therapist? Yes, that was it—nursemaid and physical therapist to Draco. Amazing transformation, really.

The woman even doted on _him_, of all things! They sat on the library floor, day after day, pouring over this tome, or that. And she fussed, all the while. Made certain he had tea on time, reminded him when dinner was set. She'd even brushed his hair a few times! Tied it back as he read, insisting the long, pale locks a distraction.

_And_ she chattered nearly the entire time. Endless chattering. Sometimes he hadn't the foggiest idea what she was saying. But then she'd stop, falling silent for patches whenever she found something promising, and suddenly the room seemed too quiet for him.

Without glancing up from his reading, he'd prompt her. "Miss Granger, you were saying?"

"Hmm?" She'd furrow her brow, but wouldn't look up, either. "Oh, sorry, Mr. Malfoy." And leap right back to whatever she'd been rambling on about.

He watched her bounce about the Manor like some wild-haired, hyperactive pixie, loopy on fairy draught.

She seemed in need of his . . . comforts less and less. But he could not fault her for this. Perhaps the act itself had never, truly, been what she needed, only something more immediate, and of a far different emotional vein, than her suffering.

Frowning thoughtfully, he looked up from the missives in his hands. He sat in his study, counting the acceptances to Draco's welcome home party—someone had to organize this fiasco, and Miss Granger had her hands quite full, at the moment—so far, he was certain there were more people attending than actually lived in Wizarding Britain. And he wasn't done tallying, yet!

He sighed and shook his head as he went back to his counting. He'd thought perhaps she no longer required their arrangement, and she'd leave the Manor, though he could not fault her for her choice. Each morning he awoke expecting that day would be the one when she packed her things and announced her departure, yet each night, she would simply retire to her room.

Of course, he was in no hurry to make her feel unwelcome, either. After all, if her goal at the moment was aiding Draco, then remaining where she was seemed the logical, convenient choice.

His own, sad state didn't quite matter to him these days. He watched Draco walk about, unaided—though his steps were still unsteady after too much activity. Watched him regain his color—what little color he had, given their family's general lack _of—_watched how the marred skin around his eyes had begun to heal. The tender flesh had faded to the sickly, yet somehow much better-looking, yellow of a mending bruise.

Perhaps he was simply able to ignore that terrible, aching hollowness when he was focused on his son. To forget it existed for a few, precious heartbeats.

He spoke with Draco more and more, little-by-little; longer, more in-depth conversations with each passing day. It first began with no more than a greeting, inquiring about how he felt, and branched, slowly but surely, until now. Now they would sit and discuss any number of topics, losing easily an hour or two.

Though he carried on these chats with no ulterior motive in mind, Lucius held the hope that he would feel some fragmentary spark of joy, or anger—Merlin knew when the last time was he'd hollered at one of the house elves—or even sadness that his family would never again be whole. Yet, still nothing would come.

In a strange way, and even with his malady, he thought perhaps he and Draco were closer now, in these few weeks, than they'd been the young man's entire life. The realization had been a startling, pensive moment for Lucius. Had he really failed so terribly at being a father?

He also considered that his malady was _precisely _why he made this realization. His understanding that he was a void, and that void might harm Draco, caused him to treat his son with greater care than he might have, otherwise.

Perhaps _that_ was the saddest thing about his current state.

* * *

As she pulled open the doors, a glint on her wrist caught her eye. Frowning, she brought her arm close, inspecting it to find a strand of Lucius' hair. She must've gotten it on her when she tied his hair back from his face. Honestly, how that man could read anything with it constantly sliding over his shoulders and into his line of sight was beyond her.

Smiling without realizing, she plucked the strand from her arm and let it fall to the floor. Lucius Malfoy's hair was so soft, and sleek. Sadly perfect, really. Unlike her own, which required aid of a magical elixir to get even remotely close to the description _silky_.

Sometimes, when they were reading together, she found herself staring at him. Her head tipped down, toward the book open in her lap, but her gaze trained upward. She didn't realize until he reminded her that she had fallen quiet.

There was simply something that tore at her about how sad and lonely he seemed, even though he appeared just as emotionless as when she moved in. Well, nearly . . . every so often she glimpsed some small spark. The giddy fluttering in the pit of her stomach during those glimpses made her think perhaps there was part of her that hoped there was some way to fix him.

Blinking rapidly a few times, she shook her head, focusing on the task before her.

* * *

"I swear," Hermione fretted aloud as she stood, hands on her hips, staring into the depths of Draco's wardrobe. "Do you have not a single article of color?"

Draco snorted a chuckle as he stretched. He was far less easily staggered, far stronger now than when he'd found himself mysteriously back in Malfoy Manor a few weeks ago, but he still needed frequent catnaps throughout the day to manage.

Today was the day of the celebration he dreaded, and though she'd not mentioned it, he'd woken from his post-therapy-session nap to find her twittering about his room, like a mad, golden-brown humming bird. Shoes and undergarments—he couldn't_ believe_ she'd gone through is undergarments!—she'd already set aside by the time he'd realized what was happening.

"I'll give you a minute to think back on any time you saw me out of uniform while we attended Hogwarts, and then you can ask that question again."

Scowling, she turned on a heel to meet his gaze. Hermione was completely unsurprised to see him smirking at her. "You are a snarky wretch, Draco Malfoy, you know that?"

He bit his lip to hold in another chuckle before he managed a response. "Again, if you think back on when we attended Hogwarts—" He ducked, causing the darned socks she threw at him to glance off the headboard.

"Merlin's beard, woman! Recuperating war hero, over here! Honestly."

Hermione burst out in a surprised, but humorless laugh. "I see, so when you're feeling bad about yourself, you can have a pity-party, whining how you're not a hero, but you'll use it as a defense when you're being an arse?"

Grey eyes rolled upward. "I . . . hate to say this, but refer to my last answer."

She gasped, but sank her teeth into her lip as she shook her fists. He thought perhaps she was fighting the sore temptation to throw something else at him.

After a moment, she took drew in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "Okay, you're clearly well enough to do this yourself—"

"As I've been telling you, about everything, for days now."

"And about most things, that's been complete rubbish, thanks very much. Anyway, get _yourself_ ready, then. Oh, and I thought tomorrow we might go to Diagon Alley."

Draco furrowed his brow as he pushed aside his covers and set his feet on the carpet. "Why?" He wouldn't admit it—certainly not to Granger—but the gaping hole in his memory made him fearful of setting foot outside Malfoy Manor.

She shrugged, flicking her gaze over him briefly before turning and walking to the door. "All the books I ordered are a bust. Maybe there's something tucked away in a forgotten shelf at Flourish and Blotts. Or . . ." she paused, her hand on the knob and her head turned, though she wasn't actually looking at him. "Maybe one of the . . . less reputable shops."

He shot up from the bed like the sheets had been set ablaze. "_You_ want to go to Knockturn Alley? You really have gone mental, haven't you?" He didn't like the idea of her going there one little bit.

Her shoulders slumped, and she turned a bit more, meeting his gaze. "We may have to. It might be the one place that actually has something on this."

Draco dropped his head, his familiarity with that terrible street making it difficult to continue looking her in the eye. "That's an awful, dark place, Granger. And I doubt the last three months of being abandoned has made it any brighter."

"Draco, whether you accompany me or not, I'm going." His head snapped up—precisely the reaction she was hoping for—and then she went on. "Whoever did this to you obviously had very dark intentions. We might only be able to find an answer in a place equally dark."

She sounded so certain she could help him. So passionate about finding answers for him. It astounded him, really. And confused him, in a strange, unnamable way that made the center of his chest ache.

"Why do you want to help me so much?"

Her brow furrowed as though he'd spoken gibberish. "Because someone's wronged you."

"That's not what I meant." He swallowed hard, taking a step toward her, yet still half-a-room away. "Why would Hermione Granger ever want to _help _Draco Malfoy?"

"Oh." Hermione blinked at him, her dark eyes wide. She'd not thought the question from that angle. "I don't know. Maybe you've grown on me."

He couldn't help the half-smile curving one corner of his mouth upward. "What like a fungus?"

"I was thinking more like a weed. All scraggly and murderous."

Draco laughed in spite of himself.

She turned fully toward him, taking a few steps closer, as well, but only a few, a good meter and a half between them, still. "Maybe it's because I'm curious who you are."

His face fell. "Granger, you've known me for years."

Her chestnut eyes narrowed, the delicate skin around them crinkling as she tilted her head in thought. "I don't think that's so. I think . . . ." She forced a gulp before running the tip of her tongue over her dry lips. "I think the boy I knew died when whatever happened to you happened. I think the Draco Malfoy I'd known for years is not who you are, now. I've no idea who the man standing before me is. But . . . I feel like . . ." she shrugged, "maybe I want to find out."

Draco had no response for that. He could only watch as she turned, and walked away, finally exiting the room.

* * *

She paused outside the door. Spinning and pressing her back against the wall, she had to draw a long breath and let it out slowly. She could feel the wash of color in her cheeks, though she didn't think Draco had noticed.

Sometimes she simply found herself fascinated with his features. Even if they in the middle of a conversation, she found her gaze falling to his lips when he wasn't looking. When she worked his muscles, she had to stop a wayward thought to trail her fingertips along his skin in a ways that would likely hinder his recuperation rather than aid it.

She always thought things were clear, until she had one of these frank conversations with Draco, then she remembered those moments. And in remembering, things became _much_ less clear.

* * *

Hermione couldn't believe the stream of people coming up to greet Draco and shake his hand. She was certain she even spotted Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson amongst the witches and wizards gathered.

Though she knew it useless, every now and again, she combed the crowd with her gaze. Searching for that familiar mop of unruly, dark hair; for that infamous scar gracing a forehead.

She kept hoping that Harry would turn up—why he'd attend an event at Malfoy Manor was beyond her, though no one expected _her _here, either. She thought for certain Draco's fellow Slytherin had given her a curious look, especially with the way she and Draco kept ducking their heads to speak in each other's ears.

Honestly, with the noise echoing through the Manor, how else were they supposed to hear one another clearly without shouting? No reason for anyone to fuss. Even if the occasional feel of his breath warm against her ear made her shiver. He would stiffen, and for a brief second, she thought perhaps he noticed her response to him, but then he would go right back to whatever they were discussing. She really didn't now if she was glad for that, or miserable about it.

The Minister had approached them, and Professor McGonagall. The new Head Matron of Hogwarts was, for the first time she could recall, relieved and pleased to see Draco Malfoy. And she wasn't shy about saying those words, _exactly._

* * *

Lucius stood at the parlor entryway, leaning a shoulder against the wall as he watched the gathering. Possibly everyone expected him at Draco's side, but this was Draco's night and he feared that any slip-up on his part, any little tell which might lead anyone to realize there was something wrong with _him_ might shift the focus of the event.

He refused to let that happen, even for a moment, even for one guest present.

His gaze traveled back to where his stood. Miss Granger was at his side, stunning in a dress of shimmering navy satin. He wondered if the light in her face was on account of the young man beside whom she stood.

He sipped his drink, thoughtful as he observed them. Observed how they laughed at the same time, how they touched each other—his hand delicately cupping her shoulder, her fingers slipping around his elbow—to get one another's attention. How they whispered in each other's ears, even when the volume in the room dictated it unnecessary.

Biting his lip, he nodded. "Perhaps this is how things should be," he whispered before taking another sip.

Finding those drops splashing his tongue to be the last, he set down the glass on the nearest surface. His son appeared happy. Miss Granger appeared happy. He was still empty, though he could appreciate the situation he believed was unfolding.

That terrible hollow pit inside him ached just then. Frowning, he let out a sigh and turned, exiting the parlor. He would keep his misery to himself, he thought, as he wound his way to the staircase and started up.

* * *

Minerva McGonagall arched a brow, the nuances of the pair's interactions not lost on her. Her gaze swept from Hermione to Draco and back. "You two seem . . . close. I don't mean to pry, but may I ask, are you two . . . ?" She waved a finger between them.

They shared a surprised glance, bursting out in laughter.

"No, professor. She's just butting in wherever she sees trouble."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "And he's being a completely unhelpful arse about it."

Minerva's mouth puckered. Clearly, neither of them noticed the flair of color in their cheeks, nor the faint haze in their eyes when she'd put that unfinished question to them. Well, she didn't want to embarrass them, they'd been through enough. "Oh, so just like Hogwarts, hmm?"

Draco swayed on his feet, and Hermione caught him by his elbow. The elder witch was at his other side, aiding her former students.

"No, I'm—I'm fine," Draco insisted.

Hermione gave him a menacing scowl, her heart slamming against her ribcage a moment as she pulled his arm around her shoulders. He'd gained such strength so quickly that sometimes she forgot how quick he could go from fine to weary. "Stuff it Malfoy, you've been on your feet all night. You need to sit."

"Granger—"

She turned her head, meeting his eyes. This close, the feel of his breath on her lips made the delicate skin tingle. For a heartbeat she imagined what it might be like . . . if she simply leaned into him, now. If she closed that meager distance and— "Please," she whispered, not knowing what she truly felt about thinking such a thing. The idea was warm, and delicious, but somehow utterly terrifying to her.

Draco fell silent for a moment as he held her gaze. There was something about the way she was looking at him that stole his breath. Shaking his head to gain his bearings, he went back to complaining, but his protests fell upon deaf ears as Hermione and Professor McGonagall led him one of the armchairs. Frowning, Hermione looked around once he was settled. Surely, Lucius must've seen his son staggering just now.

Yet . . . blinking, she searched the crowd. He was nowhere to be found.

She felt a spark of anger. Honestly, this was for Draco, couldn't Lucius hold on that false smile for a few more hours?

Sighing, she looked to Draco and McGonagall. "Excuse me, I'll be back in a moment."

* * *

None of the guests were allowed above the first floor, leaving her free to explore the Manor, looking for him. Perhaps it was no great surprise that she found him in the library. He was on his knees, once more pouring over tomes they'd already decided useless.

He didn't look up as she approached. "You should be downstairs."

"So should you," she said softly as she settled on her knees before him.

"No. I don't belong there. People are happy, rejoicing." His voice was flat and dull as he spoke, shrugging lifelessly as he went on reading.

Hermione bit her lip, trying to think of what to say. "C'mon, this isn't helping Draco, or you. We've looked, these books aren't any help."

"Maybe we missed something."

She reached out, placing her hands over his. "Mr. Malfoy, stop."

His teeth sinking into his bottom lip, he raised his gaze from the words before him to meet her eyes. "I don't know what else to do."

For a terrible second, she thought her heart might break. He looked so lost. So confused. She didn't know what to do, either.

Acting on impulse, she snatched the book from his hands and shot forward, hugging him.

His arms folded around her, automatically, despite his words. "Miss Granger, this is not necessary."

He didn't realize lips brushed her skin as he spoke, warm breath ghosting over her throat until she shuddered, ever so slightly in his arms.

Although she tried not to react, Hermione couldn't help the shiver that coursed through her.

* * *

Draco looked around, mindlessly bored, though he didn't want to insult this latest group of overly-cheerful well-wishers. Honestly, where was Granger?

Meeting each of their gazes, in turn, he said, "Would you all excuse me a moment?"

The guests gave him a wide berth as he peeled himself from the armchair and headed out of the parlor, to the staircase.


End file.
